


Elemental

by Copperspecks



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Chris Argent, Slavery, Slow Build, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Character Death, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copperspecks/pseuds/Copperspecks
Summary: Chris is a man driven by guilt and desperation. Stiles is a lost, stolen child who thrums with undeniable power. Chris knows he’ll do whatever it takes to save the only family he has left, no matter what he has to do to succeed. One more sin can’t destroy an irredeemable soul.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/gifts).



> See the end notes for full explanation of the tags.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful TheChineseRoom.
> 
> Thank you to everyone in the Steter Network Discord, for all the inspiration and support. Especially to the wonderful Greenie. Finally, a finished fic!

The letters were heavy in his pocket. Chris was no stranger to burdens—it came with his name, Argent. A name that inspired fear, disgust, or pity in equal turns. Names were to be held proudly, but Chris’ burned like any other scarlet letter on his chest. But in Spired City, Chris had found some measure of peace. The streets were crowded, crammed with labors and those trying to sell something to them. No one paid a man who kept his head down any attention, not unless he asked for it. He didn’t want to leave.

Not until he received Allison’s letter.

As far as Chris had run—and he had long since lost any pride that would keep him from admitting he ran away—he refused to leave her without a way to contact him. She was grown now, and didn’t need a man like him in her life. She didn’t need _anything_ from her family in her life. But she was stubborn as any Argent, Chris knew, and if he didn’t keep her aware of his location, she’d be twice as likely to come after him. Staying in contact seemed the easiest thing to do, particularly while she was at school.

She had told him she was at _school_.

He wouldn’t have left if he didn’t think she was at school.

In fact, she was in Beacon Hills, California, in the Northeast ranges. Chris wondered if Allison realized Beacon Hills was the scene of her aunt’s greatest crime, or if she had gone there to prove a point. It didn’t seem like a place for an Argent. A place so cut off from the rest of the grid that she had to have a letter smuggled out. An honest-to-god letter asking for his help.

Chris knew what he was. The name Argent didn’t mean anything anymore, and he was a morose drunk at the best of times. But brush of paper against his fingertips had him sobering, reminding him that the name _Dad_ meant the world and more. And so Chris did the one thing he never thought he’d have to do again.

He dug out his battered old hunting chest and blew off the dust.

—

The low lights of the bar made it seem cozier than it was. In rural towns, where buildings were still made out of wood or brick and old tech was still common, Chris would take the soft, dim lighting at face value. The faded yellow kind that cast everything into shades of brown that muted into gray. But this was Spired City, not an old-world place. It had been built during the Doomed Expansion, just before the supernatural had been discovered and exploded pent-up magic upon the world. Everything was made of some kind of metal, and dirty. Smog and every kind of residue layered over metal, patched and repatched and running on what worked. The lights built into most buildings—and certainly into the streetways—tended to cast everything in stark light, tinted blue or green.

The amount of effort this bar was making just with lighting made Chris’ eyes automatically flick to the edges, peering into shadows. A few known smugglers and local thugs. But it was the man in the corner that caught Chris’ eye, and he made a direct beeline to him. He didn’t bother with subtlety, feeling a few eyes on his back, tracing his obvious path. No one would confront him just yet—not unless he made his business known.

“Valack,” Chris said, waiting until the man nodded before he pulled out a chair. As he lowered himself down, he pulled up the bottle of scotch he had gotten from the bar and set it at the center of the table. There were already two empty glasses set out. It would be rude to ask a favor without giving a gift, and not much sympathy was given to a seeker who didn’t already know that.

“Argent,” Valack replied, head tilting in that curious manner of his. It was a look of revelation—of a man who already saw the final scene but knew nothing of the context, and waited with delight for the unknown pieces to fall into place. “What can I help you with tonight?”

“There are wards to the north of here,” Chris began, pouring out the whiskey. He served Valack first, giving himself only the barest splash that would be considered polite. “Around a small town up there. But they were put up by a darach, powered by a Nemeton. I need to get through them.”

Valack stared at Chris for a beat longer, then laughed. “And just what is hiding in this small town?” he asked. When Chris didn’t yield an answer, Valack reached for the whiskey. “A darach with a Nemeton is dangerous enough. I assume they’d have already made the sacrifices necessary to control it. You’ll need as much power as you can. And a Nemeton is one of the strongest natural centers of magic there is.”

“So it’s not possible?” Chris reached for his own glass, waiting until Valack had begun to drink before he took a sip.

“I didn’t say that. But you’d need a true powerhouse with skill besides to get through it. Do you really expect a tool like that to be sitting in Spired City? Within your reach?”

Chris didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ve heard someone like you can get their hands on anything in Spired City.”

Valack laughed again, toasting his glass. “Well, I might know of _something_. It’s even within your reach too.”

Chris reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick billfold stuffed with credits. He dropped that on the table, next to the scotch. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Argent,” Valack said slowly. “How far up that family tree are you?”

Chris waited a beat. Breathed. “Son of Gerard Argent.”

“Oh. Well then.” Valack leaned forward, taking the money and the bottle of scotch. “You’ll be able to handle a little bit of unpleasantness, won’t you? If you want your tool, you’ll have to steal it.”

“Just tell me what,” Chris replied coolly. “And tell me where.”

Valack grinned. And then Valack began to talk.

—

The eastern corner of Spired City was loosely known as the entertainment district. On the top levels—where air trams zipped merrily between buildings lest the highest denizens ever have to drift even halfway towards the ground—there were the kind of decadent events that hosted starlets, politicians, moguls. The mid-levels started out on the expensive side, but lacked the same air of exclusivity. It wasn’t until the mid-levels began to fade into the lower ones that excitement set in, that perfect blend of letting the mids feel like they were playing dangerously by slumming it while the lower-level dwellers got to have a taste of something that wasn’t labor and grime.

The venues here tended to embrace the gaudy side, vying for attention. With crowded streets, filled with families from the lower-levels and half-drunken mids, it all reminded Chris of the fairs he attended as a young teen. He felt the distance like it was miles instead of years. There was no excitement churning his stomach now—all he felt was the even, subdued pulse of his heart and the faint headache of being around so many noisy people.

Chris didn’t need to fish the crumpled bar napkin out of his pocket. He already had the address memorized. But even for a street crammed with neon lights and flashing vid screens, the venue was a little over-the-top. There were women in brightly-colored bodysuits lounging on the sign, fanning strategically-placed feathers as they called down to passers-by. Whenever someone paid them attention, they arched and posed, swinging down by their knees to dangle just out of reach. It was an obvious attempt, but it seemed to work—whoever they called to usually raced for the entrance. Chris stepped closer to the building, and one of the women caught sight of him. She swung down, reaching out an arm to curl her finger at him. Chris felt a pull, something hot twisting in his gut. It made his eyes narrow, but the woman laughed.

“Come see the show!” the woman cooed once she was in earshot, swinging an arm towards him. “There’s all sorts of things to see.”

Her mouth opened too wide, and Chris was able to spot a hint of dark purple on her tongue. _Siren_. It was a clever plan, working and hiding in a boardwalk like this—up in the air, she’d normally be too far away to spot, and out on the street, it’d be easy enough to pass off the coloring as a brief staining from some obnoxious fruity drink or candy. Chris shifted, and the woman caught his sudden awareness. She immediately swung back up to her perch, giving him a nervous smile. The woman beside her leaned close before casting a worried look of her own at Chris.

He nodded at them, knowing it wouldn’t do anything to alleviate the nerves as he turned into the venue. He wasn’t a hunter anymore. Or at the very least, they weren’t his target tonight.

Buying his ticket was done with direct credits, tipping the thin disks from his hand into the white, dirtied glove of the attendant. The lobby was only slightly quieter than the street. There wasn’t any piped music in here but the milling crowd was packed in, the sound of talking and laughing trapped without anywhere to go. Finally the lobby doors opened and the lobby seemed to move as one, everyone streaming in to take their seats.

Whatever stage that used to be there had been transformed into an open arena, giving the entire space the feel of the big-top tents that still popped up from time to time outside of the cities. Two tall pillars had been erected, complete with a tightrope line, dividing the space between empty trapeze swings. Chris had a sudden memory of taking a seat decades ago, his father talking loudly into a phonelink on his left while he tightly gripped Kate’s hand on his right. She had been so adamant she’d join the circus that day. She wanted to be one of the daredevils on the highwire or on the swings.

Chris wished he had let her go then.

He found an aisle seat on the edge of one of the curved rows, partly overshadowed by one of the tall poles. The other seats were soon filled with families and couples, the entire space buzzing before the lights dimmed and pumping music suddenly swelled into the space, so loud it vibrated in Chris’ chest. The beginning of the show wasn’t anything spectacular. There were clowns, tumblers, contortionists. Most seemed human, though Chris caught the occasional flash of eyes, unnatural height of a jump or light landing. It wasn’t until the first act finale when the lights went out that he sat at attention.

“When the walls of the supernatural first came down, our own daring Captain Brunski set out to find an awesome sight, something that could not be explained or contained,” the ringleader announced, stepping to the side to welcoming a swaggering man to the stage. He was dressed in a mockery of a uniform, cobbled together with pieces from different time periods and services. His medals were the same, and mostly worn on different sides. But the crowd cheered anyway, particularly when Brunski posed at the center of the ring. He held his hands high before swinging them down, producing a ringing clap.

A boy descended from the ceiling to land beside him, sliding down a blue, silken strip of fabric. His dark hair seemed to be woven with braids and strips of fabric, and a shine of gold covered his cheeks. There had to be a powder lining his eyes—Chris doubted anyone’s eyes were truly that dark and wide—and there was a thin gold chain wrapped around his throat. The boy was dressed in a dark vest that cut tight to his chest and waist, though his shirt and pants were made of a much lighter cream-colored fabric that seemed to billow when he moved. Gold flashed at his wrists and ankles as he moved across the stage barefoot. When he moved to bow to the crowd and held up his arms, Chris could almost buy the elemental designation.

“Bring us lightening,” Brunski commanded, clapping his hands twice. The boy brought his hands down in two wide sweeps and flashes of light streaked across the open space, drawing screams and gasps from the seats. Wind was next, followed by rain that seemed to pelt down, leaving Brunski and the boy soaking wet though the audience remained mostly dry, with a few people covered in a light misting. It was flashy magic, but it spoke of a contained, controlled power that Chris had to grudgingly expect. _You need to steal the elemental_ , Valack had told him, tapping the center of his forehead. _Steal the Spark, and he can crack the wards. And if you’re lucky, the Nemeton won’t eat you alive_.

The boy and Brunski took their bows on a raised centered platform, then disappeared in a flash of smoke. Chris took the cover of a standing ovation to slip out of his seat and into the unguarded stage door, sticking to the shadows and waiting by a door labeled “Under Stage—Staff and Performers Only.”

He heard the two before he saw them. Brunski’s voice was just as loud when he was offstage as he was on, though he couldn’t really hear the boy’s murmured replies. There was a thud and then the boy stumbled through the door, several braids and ribbons in his hand, making his hair lopsided as he unclipped afew more.

“What the hell was that lightening?” Brunski asked, shoving his way through the door behind the boy. “It was pathetic. You said you had enough powder to make it through the show.”

“And I _did_ , but then _someone_ tripped over it during rehearsal, which halved my supply,” the boy snapped back, righting himself. “We’re lucky I was able to get as much as I did. I had to tap into some of the juice from the spotlights, which means Coppel’s going to chew me out, even though I only had to compensate because—”

Brunski slammed the boy against the wall, his meaty hand covering the boy’s neck and the chain. “Don’t say shit you can’t back up. I own you, and you’re going to work exactly how I tell you to until I sell you or just decide you’re too much trouble to keep alive.” The chain glowed, turning an angry orange, and the boy choked out a pained sound.

It was enough for Chris. He surged out of the shadows, grabbing Brunski around the neck with one arm. His other hand held a nerve jammer ready, but he only looked over Brunski’s shoulder at the boy. “Has he actually killed before?” Chris asked, keeping his words clipped lest Brunski’s struggles actually get the man free. “Innocents?”

The boy stared at Chris, then glanced at Brunski’s red face as the man scrabbled for air. “Yeah,” the boy finally said, his eyes flashing with something Chris suspected was more triumph than relief. “He has.”

Chris nodded and shoved Brunski down. Before the man could recover Chris plunged the prongs of the nerve jammer into his neck, pulling the trigger to fry the man’s brain stem. Brunski gave one last spasm before falling still, and Chris had only a breath before _something_ jammed itself into his head. It was like the lightening from earlier had returned to strike him, burning hotly behind his eyes before fading, leaving only a warm ring around his wrist. Chris lifted his arm to find a thin gold chain around his wrist, matching the one around the boy’s neck.

 _You’ll have to kill his master, of course_ , Valack had told him. _But then_ you’ll _be his master, and you can use his power to do whatever you require of him._

“So,” the boy said, yanking the last of the braids from his hair, dumping the whole bundle in the hallway. Without the extensions his hair was much shorter, sticking up around his head. He didn’t look at all winded from exchange of power—Chris wondered if it was because he hadn’t felt it, or because he was used to feeling it. “Not to rush you, or anything. But the only reason no one’s found us yet is because the mayor is in the green room with a shit ton of food and none of the prop paths come down this way, but in about three minutes people are going to be returning to their places and wandering through here. So if you have a particular plan in mind, now is the time to go through with the rest of it.”

“The plan was to kill him and get you,” Chris replied, seeing no reason to lie. The boy didn’t seem particularly concerned with his admission, or the way Chris immediately turned to wedge Brunski’s body behind the door that lead underneath the stage. “And then leave. Is there anything here you want to bring with you? Because we’re not coming back. Take what you can carry.”

This time, the boy did look surprised. “That I want to—yeah, um. Everything’s just in the dressing room.” As unflappable in the face of murder and violence the boy was, Chris frowned at his surprise to such a relatively minor allowance. Chris gestured for the boy to lead the way, and followed him through a small maze of hallways until they came to a dressing room simply labeled _Brunski_ in thick, gold letters. Underneath, written in black pen on a piece of tape, someone had scrawled out _Stiles_. It didn’t take very many guesses to wonder who had written it, though Chris wondered if the boy’s name was actually Stiles, or if it was merely a stage name.

Chris was first struck by how neat the room was. Every drawer and cabinet was labeled, written with the same hand as the name on the door. The large, lighted mirror took up an entire wall, covered with paints and powders. Stiles skipped over those, reaching into a drawer to pull out some wipes. He quickly scrubbed his face clean, getting gold, powder, and shadow off his skin. He turned to dig through one of the wardrobes, pulling out a bag in the very back that seemed half-full already. Stiles shoveled a few more things into it before he paused, shooting a look at Chris. Stiles pulled out similar clothes to the ones Chris was wearing—namely jeans, an unassuming black shirt, and a plain gray jacket. “We probably have about a minute now,” Stiles explained, shameless as he changed. Chris noticed that the stage makeup Stiles had been wearing extended to his arms, though the rain in his act had washed some of it away. There were bruises on his skin. No guilt about getting rid of Brunski, then.

“Get us out of here,” Chris ordered when Stiles finally seemed packed and ready. The chain on his wrist seemed to thrum against his skin at the command, an odd sensation. Chris wondered if Stiles felt the same around his neck.

—

Stiles seemed remarkably unfazed by the change in his environment. Once they left the theater, Chris stopped at his apartment only long enough to grab supplies before he shuffled them onto a train out of the city. Stiles didn’t ask any questions about what Chris wanted him for, only trailed off to him, eyes darting around his crappy apartment before Chris shuffled them out again and started for the train station—the only one in the city that had trains going out on magno-tracks. He shelled out for an individual overnight compartment, if only because it would give him the necessary privacy to find out why Valack had sent him after Stiles and keep him from having to deal with other travelers. Stiles had asked a few questions—“Your name? Or, I guess, whatever you want me to call you. I’m Stiles. Or, really whatever you want to call me. Just maybe not something weird?”—that seemed to get longer and a bit more pointed each time. Stiles was testing his boundaries, Chris realized. Well, the boy was likely to be content on that front, since Chris didn’t really care how long the boy talked.

Or so he thought.

“—and I’m not really complaining, you know,” Stiles continued, sprawled out on the bunk he had pulled down from the wall. When they first walked in he had jumped for it, shouting something about top bunks and other things Chris hadn’t paid attention to while he just took the cot that was Stiles-free. “It’s just, you haven’t asked me at all how the whole controlling me thing works, or what magic I can do. Or even told me why you knew where Brunski and I would be, even though I’ve never seen you before, or why we’re on a train out of the city. Actually, no, you killed a guy, that’s a pretty good reason.”

“Try and say it a little louder,” Chris said dryly, finally looking up from the book he had brought onto the train. He realized he hadn’t thought to bring anything for Stiles. No wonder the kid hadn’t stopped talking. “I give you an order, you do it. You’re an exceptionally powerful spark, and all those tricks in the theater were for show and not anything that actually demonstrates your power. You _are_ strong enough to break wards, and that’s what I need you for. I found your name from a man who knows how to arrange things, and I know how to remove people or things I want. We’re on our way to the wards to break them. After you do that for me, I’ll set you free.”

At some point, Stiles had stopped his fidgeting to peer over the edge of his bunk at Chris. “So, what. You’re going by the _Aladdin_ rules?” Stiles asked, skeptically. At Chris’ blank expression, he rolled his eyes. “It’s this super old movie, doesn’t ring a bell? Saw it at a classics showcase in—never mind. Look, I appreciate the whole offer of freedom thing. But you’re a hunter, aren’t you? What you did to Brunski, that thing was a modified hunting weapon. Doesn’t letting me and my magic go free fly in the face of your sensibilities, or something?”

“Know a lot about hunters, do you?” Chris asked, staring back at Stiles. There was something underneath his ramblings that Chris recognized all too well. Once his father got older, Gerard played at being the sweet old man. Kate used to play up being the playful girl-next-door. Usually of the tomboy variety, since she was never able to work the rough-and-tumble out of her personality entirely. And Stiles, Stiles was talking and rambling, revealing his hand in a spew of words.

Chris wondered what the ace up his sleeve was.

“Well, you know. I’m a spark, I work in a circus with the supernatural. Seems the thing to do,” Stiles replied, fiddling with the corner of his sheet.

“Worked,” Chris corrected. “Past tense. I don’t think you should go back to Spired City after you’re released. Unless they had hidden cameras in that hallway, they’ll probably suspect you fried Brunski’s brainstem. Sure, it breaks the rules of whatever magic this is,” Chris added, tapping his wrist. “But they’d rather say you went rogue than acknowledge someone like me got in there without anyone noticing.”

Stiles paused a moment, staring at the window before he slowly nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But that place wasn’t my home, so. No loss there.”

Chris wanted to ask where home _was_ , but he wasn’t about to tell the kid his life story, and he didn’t expect Stiles to either. “As far as your magic goes, I’m a retired hunter. I don’t do those things anymore.”

“So this whole ward-breaking thing is a personal mission?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow. “Brunski wasn’t a good man, but I was the only one in any kind of danger and even then...”

“He hit you,” Chris replied flatly. “He threatened to sell or murder you. And that’s just what I’ve noticed in forty seconds.”

Stiles held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing with you. He was an asshole and a bully. And, if you can believe it, he’s actually calmed down since he got his hands on me. He’s one of those dicks that actually get more aggressive when they get power over someone, not less. But he was mostly okay to everyone else. It’s the shit he did before that was worse.”

“How old are you, Stiles?” Chris asked. “How long did he have you?”

Stiles shrugged like he was describing an old boss. “I’m nineteen. He had me for about two years, I think? I was on a caravan before that, the head trader used me to defend the trucks and other cargo.”

Chris knew Stiles wasn’t particularly old, but he didn’t expect Stiles to be so _young_. There were faded circles under his eyes, and he carried himself with a stiffened wariness that gave away his true level of caution no matter how he flailed himself about. And Stiles’ eyes…. Chris didn’t want to admit how many times he’d found himself staring at them. They were a pale yellow in some lights, a whisky amber in others. But they were also hard, and mean. Chris had seen the survivalist in Stiles when he held the nerve jammer to Brunski’s neck, and he knew never to make the mistake of thinking Stiles was harmless.

“My daughter is only a year old than you,” Chris offered. “She’s on the other side of the ward. The town is being controlled by a darach, who is drawing magic from a local Nemeton. We’re going to break through.”

Silence filled the compartment. A long, heavy silence as Stiles stared down at Chris, going more still than Chris had ever seen him. Then, just when Chris felt the urge to break the quiet, Stiles let out a long, low laugh.

“Oh,” Stiles said, pushing himself to sit upright. “Oh. And I thought you wanted something _hard_ , you had me all worried it was going to be something unpleasantly, and now you’ve told me the situation is _totally_ doable and not at all insane.”

Chris only nodded. “I’ve been told it’s something you can handle.”

“What, by your inside guy?” Stiles demanded. “Look, Nemetons are super-rare nowadays. They can only grow in unspoiled, relatively untouched land. Which usually means forests, though they _can_ happen in deserts and plains that’s kind of theoretical nowadays? I mean, I only know of one in the tri-sectioned area, and it’s a fucking doosie, okay? If a darach—which are _also_ kind of rare, considering druids became kind of a lost culture once most of the green went down, okay? Not only do they like to get all celtic but they have to be evil about it. So if this elusive evil unicorn was able to …” Stiles trailed off, sucking in a sharp breath. “You said a town was warded,” he said suddenly, fingers digging into the blankets of the bunk. “The one that was taken over. Which town is it?”

“Beacon Hills,” Chris replied, and watched Stiles close his eyes and take a deep breath.

“Beacon Hills. Right. Of fucking course,” Stiles mumbled, the words quiet, but not quiet enough to be inaudible before he lifted his head to aim his words at Chris. “We’ll get those wards down, you can save your daughter. I like this plan, I am totally on board with this plan.”

Chris had never heard a change of heart more obvious. “You have a history with Beacon Hills,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Home town,” Stiles admitted. “The darach—her name is Jennifer Blake. Well, Julia Bacarri, but _that_ name is almost entirely scrubbed from records. She’s the one who did this,” he added, tapping the chain at his throat. “The pack—most of the local pack was killed, leaving a new Alpha and her brother. Her second beta was in a coma, and I was trying to help him wake up. I figured out someone was purposely keeping him knocked out, and she caught me before I could warn the rest of the pack. She said it would be a waste to kill me outright, and she couldn’t steal my spark since it was the wrong kind of magic for her. That, and she wanted to keep my dad in line, make an example of me and—” Stiles cut off for a moment, his lips twisting down bitterly. “That was five years ago. I didn’t realize she had gotten strong enough to put up a ward, or that she got the Nemeton to work with her. It makes things harder, but … I’ve gotten stronger too.”

“She put that on you when you were fourteen?” Chris, by and large, wasn’t too surprised by the horrors he saw in the world. His own family was responsible for the death of children and innocents. Gerard had a penchant for trying to break and train supernatural beings he thought he could use for his own machinations. But if he closed his eyes he could see Allison at thirteen, when she was obsessed with taking pictures of everything she saw and writing down poems. Before Kate and Gerard’s crimes had been dragged into the light, before Victoria was bitten, before the two of them had lost everything. Chris would have done anything to protect Allison from the past seven years, and he knew he’d do the same if it meant protecting the boy in front of him. “Once we’re through the wards, I’ll release you,” he repeated. “You can stay in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles picked at some frayed edges on his jacket sleeve. “Would you swear on that? Swear on your name?”

Chris barked out a laugh, the sound raspy even to his own ears. “The name Argent doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“Then make it mean something again,” Stiles replied with a shrug. “Even in magic, your name is what you make it. Names have power, but you have to define them first.”

“Don’t trust my name, Stiles,” Chris insisted before standing. He needed to go the bathroom, though the urge was really secondary to simply getting out of the compartment. He took a small toiletries pouch from his bag and left, leaving Stiles to his silence. 

Chris didn’t shave when he was in the bathroom. It would have required him to look in the mirror.

—

They got off the train a day later, in a town that was openly crawling with the supernatural. Chris kept the hood on his jacket up, glad that he had let his beard grow thick in these past few years. With Stiles at his side—someone so full of magic that even humans could pick it up—no one looked twice at him. He had lived by the code during his own hunting days, but he wasn’t so arrogant to assume he had never made mistakes. Especially when he was young, and all of the information on his targets came from Gerard. Who knew just how many innocents had been killed, how many dying pleas and promises had been genuine.

It was odd, having Stiles there. Stiles was still so young, despite the shadows in his eyes. Whatever he had seen, it didn’t keep him from one of his full-body laughs, ones so big that his entire body seemed to roll with them. They didn’t keep his head from turning like a tourist, from smiling at the strangers they passed, from crowing, “Dude! Check that out!” when he saw something interesting. Chris felt like he was pulling a toddler through a toy store, bypassing tourist traps and more mundane shops in favor of the tiny little storefront he was looking for.

“What’s so spectacular about this place?” Stiles asked when Chris pulled them through the door. A bell tinkled overhead, like any other store, but the second the door swing shut behind them the hustle and bustle from outside went completely silent. The air was heavy in the store, filled with a humming potential that was just as tangible as the rush of scents, musty, spicy, floral—a hundred things at once. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled every available spot, leaving narrow, crowded aisles and an undeniable feeling of being watched.

“Are those cursed relics over there?” Stiles asked, sounding entirely too eager about the prospect. “No, they totally are. And some blessed ones too, holy shit. How are the energies in this place not imploding?” He reached out towards the two glass cases and Chris immediately slapped his hand down.

“No touching,” he ordered Stiles gruffly, and realized with a start the gold chain on his wrist warmed in response to the command. “…Without permission,” he amended. Stiles didn’t even look fazed. Chris followed the cramped aisles to the heart of the store, not stopping until till desk suddenly appeared like it had been waiting, crouched. The woman sitting behind it didn’t look surprised to see him, or Stiles, or the chain around Stiles’ neck, and Chris had no doubt she knew exactly what it meant.

“Mr. Argent,” the woman replied, smiling politely. “What can I help you with today?”

“Maris Morrell, Stiles,” Chris replied, answering the silent question at his back. “A darach has tapped into the Nemeton in Beacon Hills and is using it to ward the town shut. She drove out the local talent,” he continued, gesturing at Stiles behind his back. “I don’t know what that means for the Hale pack but—”

“There isn’t really a Hale pack,” Stiles said at the same time as Morrell’s reply, “They’re in distress.” Both stared at each other a beat, Stiles snorting at Morrell’s way of phrasing it before he continued with his own explanation. “Peter Hale’s in a coma, which means it’s just Derek and Laura. And that was five years ago.”

“The fire decimated the Hale pack and introduced instability into Beacon Hills,” Morrell observed, her eyes bright on Chris’. “Is this your way of trying to fix your sister’s actions? Stabilizing the town?”

Stiles gasped softly behind Chris, and Chris refused to turn around when he felt the boy take a step back from him. “Allison went to Beacon Hills. She’s trapped there now. I’m helping her and the town. Kate’s actions are her own.” Kate was dead now. She had been caught, almost immediately after the fire. He had been in Massachusetts Platforms then, planning a trip to Eurospace with Allison. And Victoria. He received the news but hadn’t felt particularly inclined to go to Kate’s trial, or her execution. Even an Argent couldn’t kill a pack of wolves who were so clearly innocent in such an obvious way.

“Breaking wards like that will take considerable power,” Morrell replied. “She will have offered the Nemeton sacrifices, to tap into the power needed to sustain wards around an entire town and to be able to use its power. Not only will you have to take down the wards, you will have to offer the Nemeton something to reject her control. Even I have nothing like that within my store that would allow the Nemeton to remain healthy after the darach is removed without a sacrifice.”

“We’ll worry about taking care of her first. If we kill her and burn the body, even with access to the Nemeton she’d have nothing to come back to. Dealing with the dark magics as she is, she’d likely get pulled away before she could try something else,” Chris replied. Morrell was about balance—the perfect person to offer him what he needed to restore balances without needing to call in favors. But she also had a tendency to point out problems without offering solutions. Chris hadn’t figured out yet if that was simply because she didn’t know them or didn’t feel like sharing them with a hunter, even a retired code-loyal one.

Morrell raised an eyebrow at him, like a mother indulging her child, but turned her attention to Stiles without commenting. “Did you have any ties to the Nemeton before you left Beacon?” she asked, holding out her hands expectantly.

Stiles hesitated but laid his palms over hers, settling them together as he began to chew on his bottom lip. Stiles had a hundred different obvious tells, Chris realized. It was a far cry from the boy who had dropped into the center of the stage, looking otherworldly in his power and confidence. Morrell’s eyes closed, head tilting like she was listening for something. “You were to be the next emissary for the Hales,” she said, her words quiet. Quiet enough that Stiles’ sharp inhale seemed to echo in the air. “Your mother—was the emissary. You grew with them.”

Stiles had mentioned his father, in passing. By now Chris knew he was the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, that Stiles was worried after his health. Stiles had mentioned a boy he called his brother, a woman named Melissa, a girl named Lydia. He had never mentioned a mother. Never mentioned Hales.

Never mentioned the dead.

Chris thought back to the news reports after Kate had been arrested, sent to him by his father. The tone of the messages had been disapproving, but it had struck him then that Gerard seemed more upset that Kate was caught than that she had killed humans and children. One name had stood out at him from the long list of victims. _Claudia Stilinski, 39._ He wondered how often Stiles or his mother stayed with the Hales. How close Kate had come to burning this boy with the rest of them.

“Your ties to the land are old and deep,” Morrell declared. “The perfect person to take the Nemeton back from a darach. If all they did was drive you out, they were stupid not to kill you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied, his voice a touch too loud as he snatched his hands back. “I get that a lot.”

Morrell’s smile somehow managed to turn more knowing. “I have the supplies that will help you get through the ward. But that will only be half your battle. If you want to save Beacon Hills, you’ll need to kill the darach.”

“I don’t care about the darach,” Chris cut in roughly. “I’m getting my daughter out, and I’m bringing her back with me.”

“What the fuck—hold on,” Stiles protested, spinning around to jab a finger inches from Chris’ face. “You said we were taking Beacon Hills back!”

“No,” Chris replied. He kept his voice level, his face blank. “I said we were breaking down the wards and getting Allison out. I promised you that if you helped me get through the wards, that I’d let you go and you could stay in Beacon Hills. And I will do those things. But Jennifer is not my problem.”

“You mean you’re going to take Allison and run like a coward,” Stiles hissed. “It’s not about saving the town—”

“I never claimed it was.”

“—and you don’t care that you’re going to doom the town again. After what Kate Argent did—”

Stiles was clearly running up to an epic rant, and Chris didn’t have the time or the inclination to deal with it. He didn’t need this boy telling him things he already knew, accusing of him of things he always intended on doing.

“Stiles, shut up,” Chris ordered. The chain on his wrist warmed and Stiles’ jaw snapped shut with a clack. “I told you not to trust me, and that my name wasn’t worth anything anymore. If you decided to do so anyway, that is not my fault.” Stiles’ eyes flashed white. Like lightening. The air crackled, the hair on the back of Chris’ neck standing on end. Before Chris could even open his mouth the chain on his wrist clanked, the chains turning rigid. The chain around Stiles’ neck responded in turn, but instead of merely stiffening it constricted, leaving a tight, gold line digging into Stiles’ throat. Stiles’ hands flew to the chain, the lightening fading from his eyes. The chain returned to normal with a gentle clink, falling into place.

Chris stepped forward, his eyes zeroed-in on the chain. “Stiles, what’s—you can speak,” he quickly ordered. “You can talk again.” His understanding of the chain had been that it was a physical manifestation of the binding Jennifer had cast on Stiles. He didn’t know it did more than compel obedience. It demanded it, and Chris realized how many years Stiles had been living with a fatal failsafe hanging over his head, waiting for the one command Stiles wouldn’t allow himself to follow through on.

How it had almost been the command not to kill his master.

Stiles wrenched himself away from Chris, the glare in his eyes sharp as any blade. “There’s no difference,” Stiles hissed. “Brunski, Jennifer. There’s no difference between you if all you want to do is _use_ me.”

Chris was an Argent. He lost his right to redemption a long time ago. “Stiles,” Chris said, speaking slowly, knowing this would be the last time he’d have to repeat himself. “I never claimed to be different. I only offered you an out when I no longer have a use for you.”

There was something wild in Stiles’ eyes. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell. And then his shoulders rounded, collapsing in before he turned, looking to Morrell. “Show me what we need,” Stiles said, throat still rough. Morrell was no longer smiling—Chris didn’t know if he’d be able to keep his hand away from his gun if she had been—but the look she cast him was still too knowing for his taste.

Stiles and Morrell moved deeper into the shop, and Chris moved back to the front. The air of the shop turned heavy, settling on his shoulders and his throat in a way it never had before. It had to be the magic, Chris decided. That was the only thing that had changed.

—

The rest of the trip to Beacon Hills could only be done by car. After the Doomed Expansion and the true effects of nemetons and similar places became known, much of the urban map had been re-arranged. The highways and train tracks had been rebuilt around the town, making sure intent had to be present to go into the town, and ensure that travelers didn’t expose themselves when simply traveling through. The warding of Beacon Hills would have likely been noticed much faster if trains and cars were suddenly hitting barriers, unable to get through. The reason it had gone undetected for so long was much the same—it took intent to get into Beacon Hills, and a lack of people coming in and out could be chalked up to a hundred different things. Everyone who was likely to have business in Beacon Hills was already settled there.

Chris had found a cheap enough car, something reliable that could take him in and out of Beacon Hills that still wouldn’t gain them any attention. The back seat and trunk was filled with Morrell’s supplies and more practical tools. Sleeping bags, weapons, food. Anything else he thought they might need. Stiles stayed quiet most of the trip, only opening his mouth to ask for something or offer up a scathing comment when he felt he had the opportunity to make a dig at Chris. The boy was more interested in finding the right audio station from the car’s transmitter, and Chris couldn’t say he disagreed with him. He had found Stiles’ fidgeting and constant chatter annoying before, but now he missed it. Stiles would have seemed flat if there wasn’t the palpable air of simmering anger about him. Stiles thought he was hiding it well, but Chris suspected it was because none of his previous masters bothered to look. It was in the way his fingers drummed on his thigh only to curl suddenly, fingers digging into denim before relaxing again. It was the way Stiles no longer fiddled with their trash, absently tearing it as he talked, but that he would crumple it, even the used cans, relying on his magic if he had to. It was the way Stiles’ shoulders would slowly tense up, coming about his ears before he’d let out a low breath, releasing the tension. Like had been coiled, ready to attack before reminding himself he couldn’t.

Chris wondered what the boundary of the ward would look like. Neither Valack nor Morrell could tell him, and even Allison hadn’t specified it in her letter. Chris continued to drive, hoping he wasn’t going to plow the car right into it. His eyes drifted down, checking that the seatbelt was still secured across Stiles’ chest, only to jerk back to the road when Stiles started forward. “Pull over,” Stiles said, jumping out of the car the second Chris had stopped. He stood beside the car, head cocking like he was listening to something.

“Are we close?” Chris asked, getting out of the car to look. The road ahead didn’t look any different than the road behind them. Even the birds were still chirping around them, since they were far enough from any city complexes that wildlife still more or less thrived.

“Close as we’re going to get in a car,” Stiles replied, shooting a look at Chris, daring the man to argue. Chris simply opened the trunk, taking out the packs he had bought in the last town and loading them up with supplies. Stiles joined him after a moment and they hid the car away, pushed into the brush and covered with what they could find.

They didn’t have to go as far on foot as Chris anticipated. The road led to a tattered, green sign that loudly proclaimed, “Welcome to Beacon Hills!” There was a hammered plaque beneath that, dating the sign as a historical landmark and ancient relic of the town. “History is important in Beacon Hills,” Stiles said, putting his bag down. “Those who don’t learn their history are doomed to repeat it. This place was teeming with the supernatural long before the Doomed Expansion. It was an open secret in town.”

“And it never attracted hunters?” Chris asked skeptically. The supernatural hadn’t been the only thing in hiding during those times. The hunters had tried to walk the balance between keeping humans safe and making sure their actions wouldn’t get tangled him in human laws. Sometimes to limited success.

“It attracted everything—but it was all dealt with. The Hale bloodline goes back to the very beginning of this town,” Stiles replied flatly. “And it’s not going to stop just because some darach decided they’d be easy pickings right now.”

Chris didn’t rise to the bait, trying to study the air in front of him. Now that he had an idea of where to look, it was easy enough to see that there was something wrong with the air behind the sign. It occasionally shimmered, or held too still. It had an overwhelming sense of wrongness, like there was something out of place precisely because nothing was. “How are we going to break the ward?” Chris asked, turning aside thoughts of bloodlines and history.

“We’re not, technically. We’re going to make a tiny hole and sneak through it, and put a quick slap of tape on it,” Stiles explained, his head down as he took Morrell’s supplies from the bag. “Enough that unless Jennifer is obsessively monitoring every inch of the ward, she won’t notice. When you find your daughter, you’ll unpeel the tape and slip right back out.”

“She’s taken over the town. You don’t think she’s going to check her wards?” Chris countered. “If she’s strong enough to bind you—”

Stiles sat down, bending over the dirt as he began to carve runes directly into a patch of soil beside the sign. “I know Jennifer, okay? She’s tapped into the Nemeton. I’m the only living person connected with town that has enough raw power to stop her, and she cast me out. Peter Hale has the knowledge of enough obscure pieces of magic to stop her, but he’s in a coma. Alan Deaton is the Hale Pack interim Emissary, and he’s a regular druid. He puts stock in knowing things, and a lot less in actually routing any power through himself. He doesn’t have the endurance to do it. Which means she’s not going to bother putting her attention into something she thinks is a sure thing. Those are the three biggest threats to a her, and she doesn’t think any of us can hurt her.”

“And all of your information is years old. There could be new players,” Chris pointed out.

“It’s all we have,” Stiles snapped. “You want to do something different, you’re welcome to share it with me. But you want me to get you in and your daughter out, and that’s what I have to do unless I want to choke to death. So rest-assured, that’s what I’m going to do. So back off and let me _do_ it, okay?” The tense line of Stiles’ shoulders was back, but this time it didn’t go away. Stiles looked five seconds from bolting or trying to tear his head off, and Chris couldn’t risk that. Not when he was so close to Allison, and either action would tighten the chain around Stiles’ throat.

Chris stepped back. “Go ahead.”

Stiles stayed kneeling in the dirt. His eyes shut, mouth moving over words too quiet for Chris to properly hear. The magic came gradually, building like static in the air. It felt like a lightning storm despite the clear, cloudless sky. The power swelled, building like it had in Morrell’s store. Just when Chris was certain Stiles had to be summoning real lightening Stiles lifted his hand and placed it in front of him. The boundaries of the ward shimmered into sight before parting around Stiles’ hand, which he drew down. The ward parted like water, and Stiles jerked his shoulder to gesture Chris through it.

The second he crossed into the other side, Chris could feel the difference. There was a tense energy here, the air too quiet. Birds still called from the distance of the trees, but they were few and far between. An unnerving sense of stillness that abate even when Stiles stepped through and dropped his hand away from the ward, sealing them in again. There were no alarms, no retaliatory bursts of magic.

Stiles had gotten them in.


	2. Part II

The first thing Stiles did was take them off the main road. He claimed to still knew the woods well, telling Chris with a shrug that he used to run with the other children in the Hale pack and knew the land just as well as they did. It wasn’t much—not like the stories Stiles had shared in the train ride. But he was speaking again, and Chris tried to ignore the fact that each word eased the knot in his stomach. Chris had watched Stiles on the train and the way he tended to chew on things when he was sleeping, how his hands flew about when he spoke, or the way he’d throw his entire body into every gesture. Now he seemed sure of himself, anger and a sense of purpose settling him down. This was more like the boy Chris had seen on stage, in his element as he controlled the ones around him. And Stiles had already informed Chris—with another steely look that dared comment—that they were going to find someone he could trust to help them find Allison. It wasn’t an argument Chris was about to get into. He’d stand out as a new face in a sealed-in town, and Stiles would surely be recognized. Chris was interested in whatever found Allison and got them out of town the fastest.

The path Stiles brought them down took them to the edges of a residential area, where backyards let out into the forest. Stiles gave that neighborhood a wide berth, cutting across the end of the street and down two others before he stopped in front of one particular house. It wasn’t anything fancy—the paint was peeling, and some of the slats on the porch railing were broken. But Stiles made a beeline up the front path, not waiting for Chris to catch up as he took the front steps two at a time. When Stiles reached the front door he rang the doorbell, pressing it in four quick bursts before he held on for one long last buzz.

The pause was unremarkable to Chris, but it appeared to be long enough that Stiles started to fidget, uncertainty creeping onto his face for the first time since they came to the wards. Chris started to say something—something he hoped was vaguely comforting, though given his track-record it was much more likely for Stiles to take offense. He was saved by the sound of feet running down stairs before the door was thrown open in front of them.

The boy that stood in the doorway was Stiles’ age. His wide eyes, mussed hair, and slightly crooked jaw gave him the look of a half-grown puppy, and somehow Chris got the impression this look didn’t come just from the look of shock on the boy’s face. “Your secret ring,” the boy said breathlessly before inhaling deeply. “Dude. _Stiles_. How did you—you were just gone!”

Stiles launched himself forward without another word, wrapping up the other boy up in a hug that was quickly reciprocated. “Scotty,” he mumbled into the boy’s shoulder. The boy turned his nose against Stiles’ ear, looking over his shoulder and finally spotting Chris. Stiles didn’t notice the boy’s surprise, stepping back after a moment and looked his friend over with the cocky grin he’d been sporting back in Spired City. “Dude, when did you get all buff?” he asked, gesturing at his friend’s naked chest. The other boy had come to the door barefoot, wearing only flannel pajama bottoms. “Scott, that’s totally not fair. I only got to grow my hair out, how did you do all that with your asthma?”

Chris cleared his throat, and two heads finally swung in his direction. “We shouldn’t stay out in the open for very long,” he pointed out, moving inside when Scott stepped back to let them both into the house. “But I would imagine your friend’s problem were solved by the bite.” When Stiles’ confusion was just as evident as Scott’s shock, he sighed to add, “He’s been turned, Stiles. He’s a werewolf. He’s been checking your scent since you opened the door.”

“Wait, _that_ bite?” Stiles demanded, spinning on his friend. “Since when are you a werewolf? Did you ask Laura for the bite? Are you part of the pack now? I always said you’d get in with me one of these days!”

Scott’s face immediately darkened and he shook his head. “No. Things … a lot of things have changed since you left, Stiles. Laura is dead.”

“She’s dead? How did she….” Stiles trailed off, looking lost for a moment. Laura would have been his Alpha, Chris remembered belatedly. The three Hale survivors were apparently down to two. “Jennifer?”

“How did you know about Jennifer?” Scott asked before reaching up to clasp Stiles’ shoulder. “A _lot_ of things have changed. And we can sit down and go over it. But first, I’m going to call your dad to come over here. And then you’re going to tell us how you got through the ward. Only supply runs can get through, and Jennifer personally vets those.”

__

“My dad’s okay?” Stiles replied. His voice was small, but there was such naked relief in it that Chris bit down his own words. “Get him over here, Scott. Whatever it takes. That isn’t suspicious. Because we kind of are,” he added, gesturing back at Chris for the first time.

__

“And who is we?” Scott asked, and this time his stare was more obvious. Chris met it evenly, calm while Stiles suddenly began to shuffle nervously.

__

“This is Chris. Argent. And Argent as in Kate Argent’s brother but not Argent as in going to burn us all down. Trust me, he’s not going to do that. He’s the one that saved me and got me here, because he’s kind of looking for his daughter? And he’s against Jennifer so yeah, total ally, don’t get all freaked out on us,” Stiles explained. It was all in one breath, earnest-sounding. It sounded almost like a defense of Chris’ character, the last thing he’d expect out of Stiles’ mouth.

__

Scott blinked a few times, before he took a startled step back. “Argent? You’re looking for your daughter?”

__

“Yeah, he’s very determined about that part too. So if you could help him find her…” Stiles started, only to hear a startled shout from upstairs. A woman ran down the stairs, her smile and complexion making her relationship to Scott clear. Her curls bounced with every step, and she swept Stiles up in a hug that was just as desperate as Scott’s hug had been. Behind her, a familiar voice called Scott’s name, and legs appeared as they came down the stairs only to freeze halfway down.

__

He saw her hair first, still long and walnut-brown, piled on top of her head. She was older, her face missing any lingering traces of childhood but so undeniably familiar that the wave of relief that surged through Chris threatened to knock him backwards. Allison’s eyes were still smudged with sleep, wearing her own pale pink sleeping bottoms and an oversized plaid shirt—

__

“Dad?”

__

Later, Chris would refuse to admit his brain whited out for a moment. His eyes immediately cut to a suddenly-shy Scott, eying his matching plaid bottoms as Melissa finally stepped away from Stiles, looking between the three of them questioningly.

__

The silence was broken by Stiles sudden, loud, _unnecessary_ laughter.

__

-

__

It was a testament to Chris’ life that this was not the most awkward table he had ever sat at. The woman who hugged Stiles turned out to be Scott’s mother, a no-nonsense woman named Melissa who quickly shuffled everyone into the kitchen to sit around the island while she cooked and they waited for Stiles’ father to arrive. It wasn’t a long wait. Chris spent most of it looking Allison over, making sure she really was fine and ignoring Scott’s many, many attempts to join their conversation. It wasn’t a tactic that would work forever. Allison had already noticed it, and the set of her jaw was so like Victoria’s that Chris knew he had lost any arguments against the wolf before they even began. Stiles’ father swept in with a speed and force Chris knew all too well. They’d hugged for a long time (hadn’t really stopped, since the Sheriff never let go of Stiles’ shoulder for very long) and Stiles had been practically bouncing in his seat about the old-tech blue jeep the Sheriff had arrived in. But he ignored the raw pain of the Stilinski reunion in favor of finding out how and why Allison became trapped in Beacon Hills. The answer involved her college roommate—and apparent banshee’s—nightmares, a promise to help this Lydia get home, and a grim determination to help Beacon Hills once Allison saw what a grip Jennifer had on the town.

__

“You told me you once hunted to try and help people, Dad,” Allison said, her voice low. “I had to help them too. Jennifer controls everything around here.”

__

“Which reminds me,” Stiles said, his voice cutting across all the chatter in the kitchen like a knife. “Why is Laura dead, and why _does_ Jennifer have control over the Nemeton and the town?”

__

The silence that fell over the table was immediate. It was finally broken by Sheriff Stilinski clearing his throat and sitting back in his chair. “The same reason. After you disappeared—”

__

“After Jennifer bound and sold me,” Stiles corrected shortly. Chris knew the edited version of the story had been shared, but from the sharp way the Sheriff had already eyed the chains around Stiles’ throat and Chris’ wrist, there was little doubt Stilinski had figured out more of the details than his son intended him to. And though Chris did not have any sort of relationship with Stiles, the detail was more incriminating than a matching pajama set.

__

“After that,” Stilinski amended before continuing, waving his hand in an oddly Stiles-like way. “Jennifer made a power move and revealed her hand. We later found out she had been going into the hospital and learning ways to control Peter Hale while he was in his coma. She lured Laura out to the Nemeton and used Peter to kill her so he’d be an Alpha under Jennifer’s control. And certain people have expressed doubt that the real Peter is still even in there. She was able to use her power to take control of the Nemeton and the town. People tried running, but only so many got through before she sealed us all in.”

__

“We’ve tried fighting her off, but between Peter and the Nemeton she’s impossible to get to,” Scott added. “We’re expected to live our lives as if nothing’s changed, but we’re not allowed outside communication and she’s set herself up as some sort of queen. She’s been killing three people a year almost like clockwork, and if she’s in a bad mood she sets Peter on a rampage and ... sometimes he bites people.”

__

Stiles nodded, brows furrowed. “But she’s just a darach. She shouldn’t have untapped access to the Nemeton, she’d have to make a pretty big sacrifice to even—” Stiles cut himself off, hand slapping down on the table “Laura. She didn’t have Peter kill her just to become an Alpha. She used Laura as a _sacrifice_. An Alpha werewolf? More than enough juice to keep the Nemeton happy. Did anyone investigate what happened?”

__

“We tried, kiddo. She locked it up pretty tight. Deaton’s the only one who really saw any magic up there before she revealed herself. We were distracted. Missing persons case,” the Sheriff said, reaching across the table to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder.

__

“Is Deaton still in town?” Stiles asked. “What about Derek?”

__

“Deaton stayed. He’s been keeping his head down, so Jennifer’s been … tolerating him is probably the best way to say it,” the Sheriff admitted. “Jennifer’s taken an interest in Derek. A romantic one.”

__

Stiles face screwed up, fingers twitching. “Well nothing says romance like killing and enchanting the last of your family. It’s the real way to woo.”

__

“Derek’s been working with us. He’s a total double-agent,” Scott added eagerly. “It might have been why Jennifer put the barrier up—he’d tell us if she was about to go after anyone, and we’d smuggle them out of town.”

__

“What about after the barrier went up?” Chris asked, ignoring how the table seemed evenly split between annoyed and surprised faces at his sudden addition to the conversation. “How did you get them out?”

__

“We … didn’t,” Scott admitted. “We’ve been hiding them. We’ve been turning basements into bunkers everywhere people will let us.”

__

“How very Cold War of you,” Stiles muttered, his eyes narrowing. “And she hasn’t torn the town apart? Or gone after any of you? That’s … more than a little suspicious. That you’ve hidden everything _that_ well.”

__

“I said the same thing,” Allison added, glancing at Chris. “I think she knows, but she’s either waiting, or she’d rather us focus on this than something else.”

__

“Who’s been making the plans?” Stiles asked, looking around the table. There didn’t seem to be a clear leader here—if anything, they all seemed to be defaulting to Stiles. Chris could understand the impulse—he’d started looking for Stiles’ leads since they came into town, and he didn’t think it was just because Stiles knew the way around. There was something about Beacon Hills that settled well with Stiles, as if he could wear the entire town like a warm cape.

__

“Deaton,” his dad replied. “He knows the most about Jennifer and how we can try to resist her.”

__

“I want to talk to Deaton,” Stiles announced. “Derek too, if we can swing it. I need to know more.”

__

“Stiles, you just got home,” Melissa coaxed, setting the first plate down in front of him. Stiles picked up the fork, but he didn’t start inhaling it like the first few meals Chris had fed him after the circus. Even when Stiles was furious with him, Chris had more or less forced him to keep eating. “You don’t need to jump in and save the day right away.”

__

“It’s unlikely that Jennifer will detect me parting her wards, but it’s not a guarantee,” Stiles said around a mouthful of potatoes. “The longer we wait, the bigger the chance she’ll find me is. Besides, if we get the wards down, no one will be trapped. People will be able to come and go.” Stiles’ eyes darted to Chris’ and danced away just as fast. “So my vote is go meet with Deaton and Derek.”

__

“And how did you get through her wards?” the Sheriff cut in. “You haven’t told us how you got here yet.” His gaze also found Chris—but unlike his son, the Sheriff didn’t look away. Chris stared back passively, letting the man look his fill. Allison had already told him she shared her plan to contact him with this odd group, so there weren’t any questions about who he was. Bringing Stiles with him, however, was a twist that certainly would have made Chris suspicious if he was in their place.

__

“Well, that part’s easy,” Stiles replied smoothly. “Chris here got Allison’s letter and went to a specialist to find out who could break through the wards. He found me, became my master so the binding wouldn’t prevent me from coming, and brought me down here. It’s pretty cut and dry. It’s why he’s going to take Allison and leave in the morning.”

__

“Your _master_?” the Sheriff asked loudly just as Allison insisted, “We are _not_ leaving in the morning!”

__

“Master is a technical term,” Stiles admitted, wincing at the boom in his father’s voice. “I mean, master as far as the terms of the bond are concerned. Not master in any other kind of way. And he got me out of the circus so it’s really a good thing?” he finished, biting his lips as he looked at his father.

__

“A good thing,” the Sheriff repeated. “It’s a good thing that the curse Jennifer put on you—”

__

“She bound me, she didn’t curse—there’s a difference!”

__

“—and you expect me to believe this man took control of you with good intentions.”

__

If looks could kill, Chris would be dead a hundred times over, and he seemed to be getting it from every corner of the kitchen, save Stiles. Chris wasn’t sure why Stiles had defended him, considering his earlier anger. Or why his father’s disapproval made Stiles seem anxious. But trying to read the boy would be fruitless, so Chris only stood, drawing Allison’s letter out of his pocket and dropping it on the center of the table. It was dirtied, the fold lines well-worn. “Allison hasn’t written me a letter since she was ten years old,” Chris announced to the quiet kitchen. “I’ve kept my distance while she went to school—so you could start over,” he added, looking to his daughter. Allison tucked her hair behind her ears, one of her many nervous habits. Her other hand curled over Scott’s knee, something Chris willfully overlooked. “She sent me messages, but never an actual letter. In this day and age, it’s not a mystery why. So when my daughter sent me a letter asking for help, saying she was trapped somewhere dangerous, I did what it took to get here. I’m not going to apologize for that, Sheriff. But I promised Stiles that I’d break the binding once I found Allison, and I’m going to honor that promise.”

__

“Did you give Stiles a choice about going after your daughter?” the Sheriff asked, standing as well.

__

Chris shook his head. “No. I’m not excusing my actions, and I’m not apologizing for them. I’m only telling you why I don’t intend to hurt Stiles. And I’m still releasing him from the binding as soon as we figure out how. I won’t take him away again—Allison is staying here. She’s made that perfectly clear,” Chris added, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the way Allison’s face lit up at his words. “Which means I’m staying here to help. Jennifer doesn’t know about me, or my skills. It might give you an edge.”

__

“You’re staying?” Stiles asked, surprise and skepticism heavy in his voice.

__

“At least until Jennifer’s been taken care of. I don’t think Beacon Hill wants a hunter.” Stiles was staring at him. The sheriff was watching Stiles watch him. Allison was watching Stiles, and Scott was watching Allison. It felt too much like a hunting standoff, so Chris was relieved when Melissa broke the silence. “We’ll call Deaton and Derek, and we’ll meet in a safe place. If Stiles is right, we do need to get moving,” she pointed out before putting down the rest of plates. Conversation grudgingly moved on, and Allison leaned close.

__

“Are you really okay with me staying?” she whispered. “After Mom—I know you wanted to stay out of this stuff.”

__

“I’m proud of you for coming to help,” Chris replied. He lifted his hand up and paused, but another look at her dimpled smile had him reaching over to squeeze her hand. “And I’m glad you asked me for help too. I’m always going to come. Even if regular visits are needed,” he added, eyes drifting over to Scott. “A werewolf, Ally? Really?”

__

“He’s sweet,” Allison protested, bumping shoulders with him. “You’ll see.”

__

It was an odd thought, realizing he wasn’t truly upset that Scott was a werewolf. Maybe it was because he had neutrally interacted with so many supernaturals since moving to Spired City. Maybe it was because Scott actually did seem like a nice kid. But Chris thought back to the way Scott and Stiles had clung to each other, the honest relief and comfort pouring off both of them at their doorstep reunion. Scott probably wasn’t that bad at all.

__

-

__

The promised safe place was the basement of the McCall house. It was sealed off from the rest of the house, accessible by the hatch hidden in the toolshed. The basement had originally been part of the house, but they had sealed off the inner door and built the tool shed around the outdoor access. They had done similar things all over town, securing basements and sometimes attics and hidden rooms. Anything that could be warded off. It was a simple enough space—a line of cots, a tiny cooking area, and cabinets lined with supplies supernatural and benign. All of it was low-tech, something from Chris’ childhood. Beacon Hills as a whole seemed like that. He’d passed streetlights outside, actual cars interspersed with modern stream-liners.

__

Chris dropped his bag on the cot in the corner, turning around to see Stiles watching him. “Everyone’s trying to stick to their normal schedules,” Stiles explained. “Scott’s calling Deaton over, but Derek won’t be able to come for a few hours.”

__

“So we’re shut in here?” Chris asked, nodding at Stiles’ cot. It was somehow already a mess, Stiles’ bags open and half the contents spilled out. “We made the trip down here. We can survive a few more hours.”

__

“Are you really staying?” Stiles asked. “You said you were taking Allison and leaving.”

__

“Allison doesn’t want to leave. And I’m not going to leave her here unless the town is safe.” Chris sat down on his bed, letting Stiles stand over him. “She’s happy, and your pack seems capable enough. Once you solve the darach and Alpha problem this seems like it would be a safe place.”

__

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, and the boy fiddled with the chain around his throat. “But you’re still planning on leaving, when this is all over. Why?”

__

“Beacon Hills isn’t my home, Stiles,” Chris reminded him. “I have nothing tying me here.”

__

“You have nothing in Spired City,” Stiles corrected. “You have Allison here. There’s really no reason for you not to stay here. I think you’re afraid of staying somewhere you’d actually be wanted.”

__

Chris had assumed that Stiles’ outrage with him had stemmed from the fact he was unwilling to stick around to save Beacon Hills. But instead of leaving it alone now that Chris had promised to help, Stiles was still here, arguing with him about it. “Do you want me to stay here, Stiles?” Chris asked directly. “Why?” There was no reason Chris should. He had gotten Stiles home, sure, but he had already admitted he was using the boy. He was fairly sure it was only Stiles’ requests that kept the Sheriff from shooting him the second they left Melissa’s kitchen.

__

“Yes,” Stiles said immediately, not a trace of hesitance or embarrassment in his voice. “I do. You were planning on setting me free the second you got your daughter back. That’s pretty noble, even if you were an ass about it.”

__

Chris didn’t look up, his voice quiet. “It’s not noble, Stiles. It’s the thin line between being bad and being a monster. The noble thing would have going to the circus with the express purpose of setting you free.”

__

“Yeah, well. I guess I’m easily impressed then. There’s something about your kicked silver fox vibe that works.”

__

Chris whipped his head up. He was confused, first and foremost, but there was a hot flush to his cheeks that was a little more familiar. “My what?”

__

“It’s—nothing,” Stiles mumbled, his entire face turning pink and he quickly turned away. Chris’ eyes traced him, a new, absurd thought coming to him. Stiles would have terrible taste if he developed a crush on Chris. Chris was more than twice his age, he was an ex-hunter. He had no business being with Stiles, who still laughed past the shadows in his eyes, who was still young, who still had a chain around his throat. And if Chris had spent the past few days noticing the long flex of Stiles’ fingers or the way he chewed on anything in reach when he was thinking, they were thoughts he shouldn’t have and definitely would never act on. He let Stiles be, and went to take a shower instead.

__

 

__

-

__

Deaton was a quiet man, with dark skin and a habit of being intentionally vague. Chris could appreciate the attempts at diplomacy, but Stiles was past any semblance of patience. He’d spent the past few hours spreading out the notes Deaton had brought on the spare cots, trying to figure out which ritual Jennifer had used to sacrifice Laura on the Nemeton. Researching was not a silent activity for Stiles—there were low and not-so-quiet mumbles coming from his side of the room, flurried bursts of shifting around, and more than a few colorful curses.

__

Deaton let Stiles have at it, turning his attention to the golden chains and how the magic around them worked. For lack of anything else to do, Chris laid out his guns, methodically cleaning each and every one, until the parts were scattered across the card table in front of him. It probably wasn’t the best sight for Derek Hale to enter on, if the quickly bit-back snarl was anything to go by. Chris looked up, nodding stiffly, pointedly putting the gun fragment he was holding back on the table and settling back, keeping both hands in sight.

__

Stiles didn’t take any such precaution. He promptly sprang up and looked Derek over, snorting a laugh before he gave the wolf a hug. “You grew a beard, oh my god. Were you tired of Finstock calling you pretty boy all the time? Because I don’t think the beard is going to stop that, exactly.” Stiles’ ramblings didn’t seem to faze Derek any—if anything, it made the wolf relax, turning to rub his cheek over Stiles’ hair before stepping back. If there was any lingering doubt Stiles belonged in this place, this pack, it was quickly fading.

__

“Some of us can grow beards,” Derek said, before turning to nod Chris. “You must be Mr. Argent. Allison’s father.”

__

Chris nodded back, standing slowly. He wasn’t interested in dancing around the subject while he stayed in town, and didn’t want any suspicions laid on Allison either. Might as well rip it off like a bandaid. “I am Allison’s father, and Katherine’s brother.” Derek went stiff, eyes flashing a cold blue that made Chris want to twitch for the knife he had in his boot. “We were in the east sector, then, but I heard what she did. And I never doubted her guilt. I’m sorry for what she did, and I want to thank you for giving Allison a place in Beacon Hills.”

__

Derek’s reply was clipped. “Allison’s proven herself.”

__

Stiles forced himself into the conversation with a smile. “And Chris brought me here, so. He’s well on his way there, right?” Stiles asked, his voice cheery enough that even Deaton looked up. “Besides, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of chances to prove himself to you.”

__

“Not so many chances,” Derek said, face pinching. Whatever news he had was bad enough he stopped glaring at Chris. “Jennifer said the Nemeton needs another sacrifice. Then she asked me if I wanted to be the Alpha tomorrow.”

__

“She— _what the fuck_ ,” Stiles said emphatically. “So she just sasked, ‘Hey, wanna kill the last of your family?’ Is that what she thinks romance is?”

__

“Stiles,” Chris said quietly when Derek quickly turned away. “Have you found anything?”

__

“About the ritual?” Stiles asked, running a hand through his hair before he nodded, going back to the papers spread all over the cots. “Yeah, I think I’ve narrowed it down. At the site, did you see any indications of old runes?” he asked Deaton, pointing fingers at him before squinting down at his own notes. “With … chalk, carved into the ground, or paper anywhere?”

__

“There was chalk, as I recall,” Deaton allowed. “Around the roots of the Nemeton, where Laura was found, and a smaller circle a little ways off.”

__

“So it was this ritual, then,” Stiles said, picking up one of Deaton’s book. “It’s directly channeling some powerful magic, basically asking the Nemeton to absorb Laura’s life-force in exchange. But it wouldn’t have been Jennifer’s power, it would have overwhelmed her system. Unless …” Stiles snapped his fingers. “Does Peter have anything visible on him that he didn’t used to before? Necklace, bracelet, anything like that?”

__

Deaton and Derek exchanged looks. “He wears a pendent with Jennifer’s initials on them,” Derek allowed before his lip curled. “She calls them his dogtags.”

__

“What did I say? Classy lady,” Stiles replied. “But it does mean something. The power from Jennifer’s sacrifice isn’t going into herself. It’s going into _Peter_. He’s an Alpha too, his body can handle the surplus energy without getting burnt out. That must have been why she was keeping him in the coma before,” Stiles realized aloud. “She was prepping him to be a conduit.”

__

“It would explain how she was able to lure Laura there,” Deaton conceded. “She could have set up the ritual you described, then stepped back and let her control over Peter do the rest. She might not even have been in the Preserve when Laura was killed.”

__

“But why is she arranging for Peter to be sacrificed?” Derek asked, his face worryingly blank and voice even. “It’s been five years. Why now?”

__

Stiles’ head tilted in thought, eyes narrowing as he drummed thin fingers on his chin. He was a force to watch when he was thinking, his mind moving just as quickly as his magic did. “Maybe Laura’s life-force was finally used up. If she wants to keep the conduit open she needs to offer more to the Nemeton,” Stiles hedged, speaking slowly. “Or maybe Peter is actually healing, now that he’s an Alpha, and it’s making it harder and harder to control him. If she already thinks she has your loyalty,” he added, pointing to Derek. “Why not take the easier path?”

__

“Or she might have sensed us coming in after all and she wants to get more power to confront you,” Chris pointed out. “There’s a lot of unknowns here—”

__

“I’m certain that we need to act now,” Stiles said, cutting him off. “Look, now that we know what she’s doing, we can beat her to the punch. Offer the Nemeton something ourselves—hell, if we beat her there before she can get the extra power, we might be able to trap her in her own sacrifice.”

__

Derek shook his head. “Peter’s strong. We tried to fight him before Jennifer revealed herself, after he turned Scott—”

__

“Woah, hold up,” Stiles said, throwing a hand up. “ _Peter_ bit Scott?”

__

“Who else would have turned Scott?” Chris asked. “How many Alphas are you used to having in Beacon Hills?”

__

“Scott was out in the Preserve,” Derek replied before he paused, sharing a look with Deaton. “…He was looking for you.”

__

Stiles paled, fingers clenching at his side. “You thought Peter had gone feral,” he finally deduced. “Did you think he killed me? Is that why no one came out to look?”

__

“We didn’t know,” Derek admitted reluctantly. “We found traces of your blood, but not enough to be fatal. And we didn’t find your body.”

__

“So not enough to prove I was dead, but not a lot of hope I was alive,” Stiles translated, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, okay. I need to have a long talk with my dad when this is all over. That blood was from how she bound me, not from actually hurting me.”

__

Deaton had been sitting quietly in the corner for so long the sound of his voice caused even Chris surprise. His hand fluttered to his hip automatically, drawing away when Derek’s eyes immediately swung around to him. “Your binding,” Deaton announced, “Comes from quite an interesting ritual. There are a few translations I’m working through, but there’s a possibility it should end when she dies. However,” he pointed out. “If Jennifer were to kill Chris, she’ll get control of you and your magic, Stiles. I suspect she initially sold you rather than keeping you to prevent the pack from having something solid to rally around. But now, she’s had time to build her own control.”

__

“So you think she’s going to come gunning for Chris to get control of me?” Stiles asked before snorting. “Well, at least we finally have a simple problem and solution. Chris just won’t leave this bunker.”

__

“No,” Chris said as Deaton added, “It’s not quite that simple. If she sees you, she’ll know you’re either here with your master, or that your master killed themself and rendered you free. The chain around your throat is answer enough, which means she won’t stop looking, and she’d raze this town to the ground to ensure she got her hands on you.”

__

“Not if we kill her first!” Stiles protested.

__

“And that’s a pretty big ‘if’,” Deaton continued, talking right past Stiles’ interjections. “She’s only gained strength in the past five years, Stiles. She still controls Peter. We have to hit when she’s at her weakest.”

__

“Which would be right before she goes through with the ritual,” Chris finished for him. It was a sound plan, the kind he used to make. “Our goal should be to keep her away from the Nemeton.

__

“She said she was going to explain everything to me over breakfast tomorrow,” Derek offered. “She’s taken over the corner booth at Rosie’s. It’s in permanent reserve for her,” he added when Stiles opened his mouth to ask.

__

“Oh, that so crosses the line,” Stiles hissed. “That booth is for deputies on break and teens making out. It’s sacred, everyone in town knows that. Okay,” he continued, clapping his hands together. “We need to get everyone else in on planning it. If we take her out at the restaurant—at the very least, if we can separate her from Peter—it’ll break off her connection to the Nemeton and we can have a fair fight. We’ll get some mistletoe, some mountain ash. Probably some shaved iron if we can swing it.”

__

Deaton nodded. “I’ve been careful to keep certain ingredients in reserve.”

__

“Go get some of that. I need to make like, darach bombs. Derek, go summon the troops,” Stiles ordered, flapping his hands at Deaton and Derek in a shooing motion. “Meet back here for the war room. We’ll get maps and put pins in them, it’ll be very official.”

__

“You’re gone five years and you’ve somehow managed to get more annoying,” Derek said. Stiles flipped him off, with an ease and absent-mindedness that only highlighted how familiar they must have been before. Stiles’ mother had been the emissary. Stiles was the emissary-to-be. He fit in with this pack, acting like he had never left. He looked magnificent like this, sure of himself, snapping out commands with ease. He was the kind of man Chris wouldn’t want to face as an adversary but would kill to have as a comrade. He wondered if Valack saw this part in his odd visions, if he had been so amused because he knew exactly what opinion Chris would grow to have of Stiles.

__

Derek left to find the Sheriff and everyone else Stiles named. Stiles returned to his work and Chris prepared to reassemble his guns, but Deaton pulled him into the stairwell that led to the surface.

__

“My translations on the texts concerning Stiles’ bonds are incomplete, but I would say they’re fairly conclusive,” Deaton began once the door to the main bunker was closed. “I don’t believe Jennifer’s binding will dissolve when she dies. I don’t think she would have bound Stiles in something so easily broken.”

__

“Then your point is?” Chris asked, keeping his arms held loose at his side. There was something too calm about Deaton, too unflappable, and it set him on edge. “He’ll be bound to me forever?”

__

“Unless you’re killed,” Deaton confirmed. “If you were killed by natural causes, or by a process no other person could claim responsibility for, then it would break the binding. But I deemed it unwise to limit Stiles’ hope of freedom until Jennifer has been taken care of.”

__

“You can’t hide something like that from him,” Chris said sharply, glaring at the man. “Stiles deserves to know the truth.”

__

Deaton’s returning gaze was unflinching and christ, Chris really did not like him. “Stiles has only been back for a few hours and he’s already made numerous protective comments towards you. I think it would distract him to know the terms of his freedom. Such worries can be put off.”

__

“Put off,” Chris echoed dully, but Deaton only smiled passively and took his leave. Stiles had mentioned that the druid put more stock in knowledge than action, and Chris was tempted to come to the same assessment. But there was a glint in Deaton’s eye that Chris was wary to leave alone. Stiles could plan a long game, but suddenly Chris doubted he was the only one.

__

Chris slowly returned to the cots, watching Stiles fiddle with something in his hands. He had taken one of the supply boxes out of the cabinets and riffled through the contents, taking out what looked like a piece of quartz and mumbling something over it, his hands glowing a warm yellow with the effort. “What are you doing?” Chris asked, coming to peer over his shoulders at the papers. “Is this the ritual Jennifer used on Laura?”

__

“It’s my plan Z,” Stiles explained when he was done, putting down the quartz next to a knife before he started to thread together different spools of wire, making a sort of corded pendant to attach the quartz to. “If we can’t stop her at Rosie’s, we need to make sure she doesn’t reconnect with the power. The easiest way to do that is to make the sacrifice first.”

__

“You’re going to make your own sacrifice first?” Chris asked, surprised. “Who’s volunteered for that?”

__

“Well…” Stiles said slowly, dragging out the word. “Laura and Peter are both Alphas. Which means the sacrifice needs to be stronger than an Alpha wolf to ensure the Nemeton accepts it.” He finished the last loop with his pliers and held the pendent aloft. Once he was satisfied with it, he carefully laid it down over the paper. “There’s … really only one power left in Beacon Hills that would make an acceptable sacrifice.”

__

“Are you going to try and trick Jennifer into it?” Chris asked skeptically. Stiles didn’t reply, just began to pick up his papers.

__

Ice bloomed in the bottom of Chris’ stomach. “Stiles. You’re not even considering it.”

__

“Look,” Stiles began, turning towards Chris. “I said it was Plan Z, last resort. Only if we didn’t really have a choice—”

__

“Stiles, no,” Chris snapped, reaching out to grab the pendant. “Because if your Plan Z fails? You won’t live to plan another day and Beacon Hills is done. It shouldn’t even be in the equation, to take yourself out like that!”

__

“Give that back!” Stiles shouted, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not suggesting it because I want to die, okay? I just got home. But I’m going to do whatever it takes to defend it.”

__

“ _No_ ,” Chris hissed, stepping into his space. “I’ve seen this anything-it-takes approach before. And it’s never, ever worth it. You’d take yourself away from your pack, Stiles. They depend on you. You’re … you mean too much.”

__

“To the pack?” Stiles asked, his eyes not moving from Chris’ face. “Or to you?”

__

Chris very carefully counted to five before he replied. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned on his heel, dropping the pendant into his top pocket. He reassembled his weapons in stony silence, packing each weapon back away in his bags when it was done.

__

By the time he was willing to even look in Stiles’ direction again, the basement was beginning to fill with people. The Sheriff drew Stiles to the card table almost immediately, and even Derek was willing to sit down now that it was free of weapons. The plan they proposed was simple—one of them would dose everything in Rosie’s booth with mistletoe, from the cleaning liquid used for the tabletop, to the salt, to whatever food she ordered. Derek would be the first in striking distance, but Chris and Allison would sit in a nearby booth, ready to jump up when Derek signaled them at the first sign of distress from Jennifer. If the mistletoe didn’t do anything, the Sheriff and Scott would be waiting outside to deal with Peter, whether the wolf was brought into Rosie’s or left outside. Stiles would be the backup, swooping in once Jennifer was weakened.

__

Chris listened to most of it, but he hung on the outside of the group, watching the dynamics. Everyone was still deferring to Stiles—which, Chris supposed, made sense for a fractured pack that’s Alpha was removed from the group. The plan seemed … plausible, but worryingly open to unknowns. Derek confirmed that Jennifer still avoided certain substances, which made them confident the mistletoe would actually affect her. But Chris took the opportunity of their focus on the plan to break away and look over Stiles’ notes. What he had written on the papers made it clear the ritual needed the recipient to stand in the second, smaller circle while the sacrifice bled onto the Nemeton. Whatever the injury was, it had to be enough to kill. The Nemeton would reach for their souls, pulling them down faster than a normal death. He moved the notes to underneath Stiles’ bed, petting his chest pocket to make sure he still had the pendent before he joined the group. As far as Chris was concerned, there was no Plan Z.

__

When the planning session finally broke up, they had already worked into the evening hours and Chris was interested in making sure he got enough sleep to counteract the far worse sleep schedule he had cultivated when he and Stiles were travelling. The Sheriff was the last to go, lingering until Scott came back with what looked like hot cocoa from Melissa, the sight of which had Stiles diving for a mug.

__

“Just like when we were kids,” Stiles crowed, toasting Scott with his mug before forcing one on Chris. “You can have one,” he insisted. “Hot cocoa won’t take away any of your Grizzled Dude points. I promise not to tell.”

__

“He might just not like chocolate, son,” the Sheriff said, giving the back of Stiles’ neck one last squeeze before he pulled away. “But a word of advice, Argent. Might be easier just to let him have his way.”

__

It was a peace offering, Chris realized, taking in the Sheriff’s small smile. “Seems like a good way to spoil him,” Chris replied, earning him a chuckle from the Sheriff.

__

“I’m not a _puppy_ ,” Stiles mumbled, sullenly blowing on the top of his mug as the sheriff finally left. He perked up once he saw the bag Scott had brought with him, a large grin spreading across his face. “You having a sleepover with us tonight, Scotty?”

__

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Scott agreed, grinning right back at Stiles. They looked ridiculous, and Chris rolled his eyes as he slowly sipped his cocoa. It tasted different than he remembered.

__

“Mrs. McCall has a secret stash of chocolate,” Stilles announced, watching Chris drink. “It’s dark chocolate, but she actually melts it down and mixes it and everything.” Chris nodded, taking another sip at Stiles’ urging. The hot chocolate he remembered was the powdered kind found in beverage tins Kate sent them from Eurospace. The last time he’d had it was when Allison was a little girl, during the few years when it actually snowed on the Massachusetts platforms.

__

“We always used to turn our sleepovers into our own pep rallies. Like we used to have before games, remember? Dreaming of when we’d get off the bench,” Stiles mused, dropping onto a cot, half-dragging Scott with him. Chris tried to ignore them, getting ready for tomorrow, but the question had him turning.

__

“Games?” Chris repeated. “Dare I ask what sport you signed up for?”

__

“Lacrosse,” Stiles replied proudly. “Although not in any of the fancy arenas you’re used to. We still have actual nets out here, not sensors.”

__

Scott snorted, bumping Stiles’ shoulder. “Yeah, but can you imagine Finstock actually trying to work with sensor equipment? He’d probably try to make Danny hack it, or something.”

__

Stiles laughed. It was a nice laugh, Chris thought to himself, sitting down heavily on the bed. He wasn’t sure when he got so tired—he’d pushed himself harder than this before, even in Spired City. Stiles was still laughing, but now he was watching Chris. His eyes were yellow, in this light. Or were they brown? Either way, Stiles looked safe, happy. Chris wanted to keep him like that.

__

Chris wanted—

__

Chris felt his face flop into the rough blanket of the cot, and then—

__

-

__

Chris woke up to a cottony taste in his mouth and the sight of empty cot. He groaned, sitting up slowly and looking down at himself. Stiles’ gear was gone, but Chris was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, he noted as he patted himself down. He still had his knife on his ankle, a tazer on his hip, no pendant in his pocket but—

__

The pendant for the ritual was missing.

__

He was halfway to the door before he even realized he had gotten up. He should have trusted his instincts. The cocoa hadn’t been off because of anything Melissa did, though he’d kill Stiles once he found out whatever he had put in there. There was no way Stiles and Scott didn’t have a hell of a head start. Chris knew he should stop, find some kind of back up. He didn’t know the way to the Nemeton. The Sheriff would want to go tearing after his son. Derek would want to help his pack. Deaton would want to make sure the ritual was performed correctly.

__

Chris only had one goal in mind. He looked down at the chain on his wrist, tried reaching for the bond that was still foreign, and willed a command. _Pull me to Stiles_.

__

Chris hadn’t had the chance to unpack his bag, and it was easy to grab it on the way out the door. It was still early morning outside the basement, the sky beginning to lighten. The town was silent, with only a few lights on. Melissa’s spare key was under the seat, just where he had been told it was for the trip to the diner. The car wasn’t as fast as Chris wanted, but it got him out of the town, his hands moving automatically, feeling the pull that was only getting stronger. He found the blue jeep at the mouth of the trail. It truly was a relic from another time, and Chris suspected it was still running mostly on the pure power of Stiles’ will. It was a testament to what Stiles could do if he truly, deeply willed it.

__

The thought spurred Chris to run faster.

__

He burst into the clearing in time to see Stiles draw the knife up into the air. “Stop!” Chris shouted, throwing his own hand up. The chain on his wrist practically burned with the force of his command. “Put the knife down, Stiles!”

__

For one impossibly long second, Stiles didn’t move. His fingers twitched around the blade, beginning to bring it down towards his stomach before it was suddenly jerked to the side, skidding across the top of the stump. Stiles scrambled for it, jamming it into the sheath on his hip before whirling on Chris just as he reached the Nemeton.

__

“What the fuck,” Stiles hissed, anger and fear flickering across his face. “Jennifer’s sacrificing Peter _this morning_. We both know the diner plan has a slim chance of happening. We don’t have time for whatever your problem is!”

__

“Stiles,” Scott said, running from the edge of the field where Stiles had no-doubt directed him. “what were you really doing with that knife? You said we just had to prep the area in case we had to make an offering to the Nemeton!”

__

“An offering,” Chris spat, looking from Stiles’ guilty wince to Scott’s terrified expression. “Whatever Stiles told you about only setting up this ritual was only a half-truth. Jennifer got her link to the Nemeton through a sacrifice—only another sacrifice will negate it. _Stiles_ planned to be the offering. You would have gotten the surge of power—enough for you to be able to have a fair fight in the diner.”

__

Scott took a step back, eyes wide under the fringe of his hair. “You were going to kill yourself so I could take your power?”

__

“It’s—look,” Stiles started, his guilty expression shifting into a stubborn one. “Laura was an Alpha, which means we’d need a stronger sacrifice. We’re out of options for who that is—Jennifer’s already killed her rivals or ran them out of town. I’m the only one left.”

__

Chris spotted the pendant Stiles had made yesterday hanging around Scott’s throat. He yanked it free, not caring when the metal bit into Scott’s skin. He was a wolf, he’d heal. Chris turned to shove it into Stiles’ hands. “Your father waited five years for you, and you planned to take yourself away for good? Leaving your pack open to future threats?”

__

“I’m willing to die for my pack,” Stiles corrected, gaze hard. “That’s never changed, ever.”

__

Chris thought of Victoria. Her unyielding determination in their work. The fierce way she protected Allison and the rest of their families. The sharp, deadly spike of her anger. And all it had done was leave her unable to cope with a life that wasn’t entirely human. “And it’s only noble when it’s unavoidable. Otherwise it’s a waste of conviction—dying because you’d never considered another path.” He loved his wife, despite it all.

__

And he couldn’t lose Stiles too.

__

The howl that ripped through the woods was unexpected. The ones that followed it were.

__

“They know we’re gone,” Stiles whispered. “But it’s too soon!”

__

“Maybe they found the empty beds. If I knew what they meant, there’s no way your father or Melissa wouldn’t figure it out,” Chris bit out. “And if they’ve decided to make their move now, it means Jennifer will come here.”

__

“Or I’m already here,” a new voice cut in from behind them. “I just sent my people into town to clean up the mess. I heard rumors you were back, Stiles. I needed to be prepared.” The pictures Chris had seen of Jennifer in town were romantic. They featured soft lighting and demure, wide smiles under sparking blue eyes. Jennifer was smiling now, but her eyes were too hard, too sharp to be anything innocent. Peter Hale stood at her side, fully shifted though he stood like a stone. His red eyes were dull, his irises lined with a sickly yellow glow.

__

Jennifer looked amused by them, wrapped up in a black leather outfit that was more popular in the east instead of a low-tech area like this. “You’ve always been a creeping weed that keeps coming back, Stiles. Been here barely a day and you already convinced what remains of your little pack to go after me. Derek, bless. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is, but if he’s very good I might even forgive him. And you,” she added, giving Chris a long look. “I don’t think I know you.”

__

Stiles stepped forward, putting himself between Chris and Jennifer, between Peter and Scott. “I’m wanted by these lands,” Stiles countered, chin held high. “I have ties here, ones that weren’t forced by blood.”

__

“But you are bound, Stiles,” Jennifer pointed out, smiling sweetly at him. “And you’ll never be free while you are. After I kill your latest master, I’ll control you like I should have done all along.”

__

“You’re not going to _touch_ him,” Stiles snarled. It was enough to send Peter into action, the massive wolf rolling his shoulders before snarling back.

__

Jennifer looked more and more indulgent, seemingly amused by their plan. “The only way to break the bindings is for the master to die. You know the rules. And as long as you’re bound, you don’t have enough access to your power to fight me.”

__

Stiles had said he had been researching, Chris realized. Stiles, who never did anything without planning backups. Stiles, who had first controlled his magic in the show as easy as breathing. They had two problems going into this fight, and both would be solved with a sacrifice.

__

“Stiles,” Chris said slowly, stepping up behind him. “I’ll set you free.” His hand set on Stiles’ hips as he leaned forward, pressing his front to Stiles’ back. He didn’t linger—he barely had time to catch Stiles’ surprised inhale and the beginnings of his annoyed brush off, but he was already whispering in his ear. “I’m sorry. Tell Allison I’m proud of her.”

__

It was far easier to slip the knife out of the sheath on Stiles’ hip than it was to see the look of realization on Stiles’ face when he spun around. It was easier to push Stiles into the second circle and take the two quick steps backwards he needed to fall back into the bounds of Stiles’ runes than it was to feel the chain on his wrist suddenly stiffening. It was satisfying to see Jennifer’s panic when she recognized his intentions seconds too late. It felt like nothing at all to swing the knife up before bringing it down into his stomach. He’d been stabbed before, recognized the pain, and dragged the knife up. His blood spelled over his hands, into his clothes, and he pitched himself backwards to make sure his blood got on the Nemeton, securing himself as Stiles’ sacrifice.

__

Dying felt a lot like getting swallowed by a massive, roaring beast.

__

Chris didn’t fight it.

__


	3. Part III

There was a woman sitting beside him. Not just sitting—she was perched on the edge of the Nemeton’s stump, legs crossed in front of her like they were watching some kid’s school play. They weren’t. When Chris sat up, there was still a knife in his stomach. The world around them was bright—too bright. In front of them, almost like a screen projection, he could see flashes of lightening and blurred shadows darting too-quickly around them. If he squinted, he could make out Stiles’ form, launching something at Jennifer. He could see Scott grappling with Peter. He could see blood, too much of it, and Jennifer lobbing attacks right back.

“She’s vulnerable now,” the woman said, nodding at Jennifer. “I was her sacrifice, and she’s almost used me up. Peter would have kept her going for longer. But then there was you.” Laura smiled at Chris, reaching over to gently take the knife from his stomach and throw it away. It didn’t hurt, and no blood welled up. “You became Stiles’ sacrifice. Which means she lost her powers, and he’s only getting stronger.”

“She could still kill him in the battle,” Chris pointed out. Laura laughed, the sound light and happy and not at all what Chris would have expected from a sacrifice. “She won’t. The Nemeton will protect him. He’s a son of Beacon Hills, not an interloper. And a sacrifice freely given has far more impact than a stolen one. Even an Alpha werewolf.”

“You’re talking about the Nemeton like it’s alive,” Chris pointed out. “It’s a focus of power, not an actual creature.”

Laura tutted, leaning back against the stump as she swung her legs out in front of her. “That’s such a hunter way of looking at things. Trust me, the Nemeton is full of power _and_ it’s sentient. Too many generations of packs and supernaturals to come through Beacon Hills to keep it from developing _something_.”

“So why are you here?” Chris asked. “Have you been trapped here since your sacrifice? Is this where I’ll stay too?”

“I’m mostly burned up. I’m in fragments right now—a vehicle for sentient thought,” Laura replied, smirking. Chris immediately felt the need to reevaluate his stance on living trees. “But a freely-given sacrifice is different. I’ve already told you that.”

“What are you suggesting here?” Chris asked, suspicion growing. “That I’m going to wake up and walk away, no strings attached?”

Laura watched him for a long moment before she replied. “When Jennifer used me as the sacrifice, she sucked every last bit of power she could get and syphoned it through Peter. She’s burned through every part of me she could get. Stiles doesn’t need to burn even a single atom of you.” Laura grew quiet, watching Stiles take a hit from Jennifer that had Chris lurching up through nothingness before Stiles returned a blast that sent Jennifer spinning through the trees. “Stiles doesn’t want your power. Stiles has his own. Stiles only wants you back, nothing more and nothing less.”

“Deaton already explained to me that he’d never be free of Jennifer’s bindings,” Chris admitted quietly. “Even if she died. They’d only be undone upon his current master’s death. I couldn’t let him live like that forever, even if I left him in Beacon Hills.”

“He’d still rather have you,” Laura pointed out.

“Stiles is young,” Chris said, abruptly blunt. “And I’m not. He likes the idea of me. Someone who rode in to save him from his bindings and took him home. And Stiles deserves more than an old man who only took him to use as a weapon.”

“And yet,” Laura replied lightly. “You’re being obtuse. You’re dead, and Stiles’ bonds are broken. He can make his own decisions about you now. And when you get to know him that well,” she continued pointedly. “You’ll find that once he makes his decisions, he tends to stick with them.”

Chris looked down at his wrist, eyes automatically searching for the gold chain that wasn’t there. “It doesn’t matter now. I made my choice. Even if the afterlife has interesting company.”

“Interesting doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m sitting with an Argent, and we’re debating whether or not he deserves love with a pack emissary. Death’s even weirder than life.” Laura laughed again, and this time the sound coaxed a chuckle from Chris. “I already told you. Stiles makes his own decisions. How he loses. And how he wins. And … he wins,” Laura added before the white light around them flashed in intensity, bright enough that Chris’ eyes should have hurt. A scream tore through them, an oily mass appearing above their heads. Images reflected out of it, bits and pieces of Jennifer’s face, of her deeds. Laura reached up and grabbed one oily blob at the bottom of it and jerked the blob down. It cracked against the Nemeton, slowly oozing into the cracks. The shadowed images of them faded, and as Laura stood up, she began to as well.

“My link is broken. I’m free,” she explained, stretching up her arms like she could fly upwards. Laura looked down at Chris, reaching out to lay a hand gently on his shoulder. “Let go of your guilt, Chris. Of the mistakes you made before you knew better, of the lives you couldn’t save because they didn’t want to be. Allow yourself to be happy.”

“I’m stuck here,” Chris reminded her. “I’m dead.”

Laura rolled her eyes, and pushed him back against the Nemeton. “Stiles is stubborn. And he’s aready made his own decision. Don’t waste it.”

Chris’ back hit the trunk and this time, it hurt. He jolted like he was being electrocuted, then compressed, like every single part of his body was being squeezed into sausage casing. It was painful, it hurt, and then …

And then he closed his eyes.

 

 

 

He felt the hands on his chest first. They were warm, pressing down on him. And they were angry. Or no, not them. The voice they belonged to was angry, choking in fear. Or on tears. Chris—

Being alive hurt. No matter how many times it happened, being stabbed hurt like a bitch.

“Stiles,” Chris choked out, finally forcing his eyes to open.

A pale, furious face appeared above his. There was blood smeared on Stiles’ cheek, and tears in his eyes, but he was alive. “No, don’t talk, asshole,” Stiles snapped. “You almost died. You _did_ die, and I’m pissed. So just—lay there and let me save your damn life.”

Scott’s head popped up behind him, looking a bit more worried. “He’s actually really glad you’re alive, Mr. Argent. I just think you scared him.”

“No, don’t tell him that. I’m angry at him, and I’m saving his life anyway,” Stiles huffed, his hands glowing yellow as they moved. “And don’t think dying means you’re off the hook.”

“You were going to die,” Chris pointed out. “All the way.” He paused, realizing Stiles’ knack for fixating on the absolute wrong details were rubbing off on him. “Jennifer? Peter?”

“Don’t talk. I _will_ gag you,” Stiles warned. “Jennifer’s very, very dead. I set her on fire. It was therapeutic. Peter’s out cold. Fire is … not so good for him,” he added, spending a second to look guilty. Chris coughed, some blood flicking up, and the expression was gone in a flash. “Seriously, you should rest. But you know, not too long. You better wake up again.”

Chris wanted to nod. He wanted tell Stiles that the Nemeton let him come back to life, for no discernable reason, but was unlikely to let him die again. He wanted to tell Stiles about the curl of his lashes, and about the perfect placement of the mole on his chin. Instead he closed his eyes, focusing on listening to Stiles and Scott move above him, their words washing over him. Help reached them eventually, but he didn’t care about being loaded into someone’s car, only the warm hand that slid off his chest once Melissa arrived and instead slid down his arm to hold his hand. It was nice, Chris thought. And he wasn’t particularly eager to let go.

-

Chris wasn’t entirely sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up, it was in a hospital room. He was covered in bandages, and surprisingly alone. No, not alone. There was an Alpha werewolf in the bed next to him.

“It’s precautionary,” Peter Hale explained when he saw Chris was awake and openly staring at him. “Apparently going from a coma to being hypnotized from a long period of time makes doctors nervous. Even ones that regularly work with wolves.”

“And they put brain trauma victims in with me and my stab wounds?” Chris asked. He was probably drugged, to say something that openly, but Peter only chuckled.

“They do when it’s the Alpha of Beacon Hills,” he explained smugly. “And even if I didn’t insist on it, likely the rest of the pack would. Besides, it gives us plenty of bonding time.”

There was a very distinct possibility that Peter was even more dramatic than Stiles was, and wasn’t that a mildly terrifying thought? “I’m Chris Argent. Kate Argent was my sister. I used to be a hunter.”

“Laying it all out on the table,” Peter observed, swinging his legs around so he could perch on the edge of his bed. “I approve. But you needn’t worry. You’ve been vouched for, repeatedly. Stiles threatened me over you. Terrible family aside,” Peter continued, pausing to swallow and obvious snarl over the words. “You were willing to kill yourself for my pack. They wouldn’t be safe without you.”

“I had to. No matter what else happened,” Chris insisted, closing his eyes. “The only way for Stiles’ binding to be undone was for me to die. It just … solved two problems with one stone.”

Peter was looking him over. Chris didn’t need to have his eyes open to tell. “Well,” the Alpha finally admitted. “That’s rather fatalistic of you. I suspect you shouldn’t let Stiles know you were so set on solving that particular problem. He’s rather attached to you.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Chris replied quickly. “I’m not—I’m not trying to encourage it.”

Peter laughed. It wasn’t meant to be mocking, Chris thought. It was downright amused. “Then you’re an idiot. Stiles is a very handsome young man. Pretty young things looking in the direction of older men like us … we should all be so lucky.”

“Won’t Stiles be your emissary?” Chris finally asked. “Shouldn’t you have some sort of problem with this?”

“Being my emissary doesn’t mean I have any say in his love life. He and his mother would have shaved my head for even suggesting it,” Peter said mildly. “In both forms. And I’m feeling rather charitable at the moment. I’m sure the sheriff’s going to give you a hard time, but the man’s allowed.”

“I think you’re in shock.” Chris should be blunt. He didn’t have the energy to play games. “And I think your opinion of me is going to change.”

“Shock? Very likely. I was aware of my surroundings until Jennifer found me in my coma. I woke up to find that I’d killed my niece, my town had been ravaged by a creature that took advantage of my family’s tragedy, and that my pack was almost scattered to the winds.” Peter’s nails lengthened, his eyes glowing red briefly before both slowly receded and Peter smiled easily enough at Chris. Two times Peter had lost control in as many minutes but somehow Chris only remained wary instead of militantly alert. “But some things are part and parcel of being tied to this land.”

Chris had to laugh incredulously at the ridiculousness of Peter’s position. “And that’s your pitch for getting me to say here?”

“No. Stiles would be my pitch if I truly wanted to convince you to stay here,” Peter corrected. “I’m merely letting you know that you’ll be welcome here while the two of you sort things out, as long as you don’t go back to your … family roots. So you’ll have to think about it, won’t you?”

“Maybe,” Chris hedged. It was as close to a promise as he was willing to make. Peter was laughing at him, Chris was certain of it. But the weight of his injuries was finally beginning to hit him, and he just wanted to sleep.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he closed his eyes without any guilt behind them.

-

Stiles, to only Chris’ surprise, had set up camp in the bed beside Chris. Peter hadn’t stayed more than one day, once everyone including Peter was confident the Alpha wouldn’t suddenly turn feral in a town that desperately needed structure and leadership. Jennifer’s so-called people turned out to be a smaller group of humans that quickly faltered when she died and her spells began to fail. Stiles had been disgusted by the entire thing, insisting that while he was glad the group was easy to deal with, he was a little offended that they thought their tactics would be enough to actually win. “I mean, Harris was their leader!” Stiles groused for the fifth time. “You don’t make _Harris_ your leader then assume everything’s going to turn out okay.”

“I don’t know who Harris is,” Chris reminded Stiles patiently.

“He’s a _dick_ ,” Stiles insisted. “Ask Scott the next time he comes.” Stiles had set up a visiting schedule based around Chris’ various medical appointments in the name of “getting to know everyone, Chris, like speed dating or something.” Beacon Hills didn’t have any skin replicators or muscle nanobots, which meant he had to mostly had to heal the old-fashioned way. Allison hadn’t taken any offense to the schedule, or to Stiles’ constant presence.

“I’ve heard a lot of stories about Stiles, from Scott,” she had said once. “None of this actually surprises me. Besides,” she added with a sly look. “I don’t think you’d shoo him away anyway. We both know he’s actually good for you.”

And that was the real crux of the matter. Sometime after speaking with Peter Chris had lost all urge to send Stiles away. He had just been enjoying Stiles’ company. But the longer it went on, the less Chris could ignore there was a problem. He had to say something. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone not to.

“Stiles, why are you here?” Chris asked bluntly one day, when Stiles was going on about some gossip he overheard at the nurses’ station, and how it totally made sense because he went to school with one of the subject’s younger siblings. “Because you don’t owe me anything.”

“Oh, I know that,” Stiles replied. “If anything, you owe me. You took years of my literal life. I should technically sue for it. But I’m not going to, because you look pathetic lying there and even if I tried to get a district jury in here they’ll take pity on you and rule in your favor.”

Chris shot Stiles an unimpressed look. “Stiles. Why?”

Stiles looked mulish for a moment, opening his mouth like he was going to argue anyway. Finally, he shut it with a clack and sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, because I want to, is the short answer. The longer answer is because I need to. I need to know that you’re safe, that you’re healing. I just—I need you to stop looking so damn sad all the time. When I first met you, I could kind of tell that coming here to save Allison was the only thing that was actually keeping you alive, you know? And you keep acting like you’re some sort of monster. But I’ve been around those and you’re really not, dude,” Stiles continued, flailing a hand in his direction. “Like, at all. And there are other factors too, that I know probably gross you out because Allison’s my age. But you’re my dad’s age, and that doesn’t bother me. I just try not to think about it.”

Chris had to say something. He should say something. “Stiles,” he tried. “I just think … you’re free now. You have more options than me. You should be young and date. Do what the young should do.”

Stiles squinted at Chris. “You want to make sure I don’t miss out on anything. That’s … incredibly noble, but really stupid.”

“You think everyone who does something you don’t agree with is stupid,” Chris replied, trying and failing to hide a fond smile.

“Well, this time it’s especially true,” Stiles huffed. He hopped off the spare bed, taking the three steps it took to cross to Chris’ own. He didn’t speak for a long time—Stiles was too busy looking at every bandage, every scrape he had. Chris did the same, looking at the angry line under his chin, the fading bruise on his cheek, the lingering bandage on his wrist. It was the hand Stiles slowly reached over with, covering Chris’ nearest hand and giving Chris a small, hesitant smile.

Damn it. He shouldn’t have looked at the smile.

“Not right now,” Stiles offered. “But sometime soon. Can we try something? Maybe not like, dating, not yet. But something like it?”

Chris waited for the wave of guilt. Waited for the voice that said no, he’d ruin Stiles. That he didn’t deserve anyone so loyal and full of life like Stiles. But Chris didn’t hear anything, didn’t feel anything besides the warmth of Stiles’ palm against his own.

So Chris smiled, and he nodded. “Something,” he promised, basking in the sudden glow of Stiles’ relieved grin, made more electric by the light in his eyes. “Sometime soon. We’ll try something. Or something like it.” He turned his hand over, his palm brushing against Stiles’ so he could thread their fingers together.

Stiles’ fingers tightened around his, and it felt like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Jennifer puts a magical binding on Stiles that forces him to obey a "master." It's stated that Jennifer then sold Stiles, and that he was controlled by two other masters before Chris. Chris sacrifices himself to save Stiles, but is brought back. At one point, Stiles drugs Chris's drink to make him fall asleep so Stiles can be a martyr without Chris stopping him.
> 
> This might turn into a series. This verse was a lot of fun to build, and I’d like to play more with it.
> 
> Also, apologies that they don't even kiss. If they move too fast beyond handholding Chris might swoon.


End file.
